


To the Stars, the Moon pleaded: Stay.

by JoanofArc



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Height Differences, Hurt/Comfort, Post Order 66, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Trauma, as in... very slow burn, bc the jedi order is dead so, bc there can never be enough of these, but they're gonna get there eventually, once they get past all that, satine & ben raise luke on tatooine au, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-04-26 22:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14411622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoanofArc/pseuds/JoanofArc
Summary: “If we are on the run now,” her voice takes the jovial tone he had learned to fear and he turns to her with a sceptical raise of his eyebrow. She hides her smile behind her hand and still, the way her eyes wrinkle at the corners give her away. “Does that mean you are going to shave that beard off?”[or, Obi-Wan and Satine finally get their happy ending... at some point.]





	1. In Aeternum.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello boys & girls & everyone in between, and welcome to the massive fanfiction I have been planning to write for months now. Please note that while romance will be kinda present throughout the story, the first part will focus on healing and dealing with emotional trauma. Sensitive subjects, such as depression and PTSD will be addressed later on, so please be careful if these topics affect you in any way.  
> And thus, without further ado, enjoy this journey towards (probably... possible?) happiness along with me!

The news reach her ears late, as it is wont to do for fugitives. Mandalore is full of those now, people forsaking anything other than their own ideals, running away from those they once thought friends and who are now out for blood. The irony makes it that it finds her on a deserted alley spanning at the edge of Sundari, a whisper in the wind in form of two hooded figures spilling out of a bar. Satine makes herself as unseen as she can, stepping back into the shadows and drawing the cape closer to her body. Years on the run, preceded by a youth filled with uncertainty taught her a thing or two about being invisible and it has come in handy since Death Watch took over and Maul sought the power for himself.

The two figures gesticulate violently, and from their build she can see that they are decidedly male, one lanky and tall, his limbs long like willow branches, the other burly and broad. She can take them out easily if she must, her mind supplies. The amount of times she had to has become countless since the beginning of the end, and the thought leaves a bitter taste on her tongue. A survivor lives on regret and guilt. A survivor _lives on_.

“Haven’t you heard?” the tall one slurs so terribly Satine needs to strain in order to hear properly. She doesn’t recognise the accent, but it’s so thick with alcohol anyone would have trouble placing him. At first, they appeared to be mando. Now she is not as sure.

“Heard what?” the other seems to be more lucid if not for the sway in his step. She wonders briefly if she should just let them be and move on, but something in her guts tells her to stay where she is, to listen – a heaviness she had felt only _once_ before, like the galaxy itself is shivering with the weight of terrible news.

“The jedi – they’re kriffin’ **dead**.  Serves ‘em right if I heard proper! Bunch of _shabuira_ , all of ‘em.”

The rest of the conversation becomes background noise. She must have made a startled sound because the two turn her way, talon-like fingers reaching over to steady her. She brushes them off. Needs no comfort when they do not even know what the comfort is for. The air gets knocked out of her lungs and all that Satine can do to ground herself is to claw at the duracrete wall to the right, feel the harsh surface scrape against her skin until it’s raw. They must think her another drunkard into the night because they let her be, turning instead to each other so they can keep on chatting animatedly.

They cannot be dead. _He_ cannot be dead. She had mourned him once before to have him appear back from the ether as if life itself was his to do as he pleases; a magic trick that is nothing but smoke and mirrors. The quickening of her heartbeat is deafening and the next thing she knows, she is running away from the alley and its stench of death. Sundari looms at her heels like a monster with its maw hanging open, tattered by civil war, waiting for her to stumble, to fall so it can swallow her whole and spit out the bones and ground them together into the ash coating Mandalore.

She does not stop until her feet hit the sand. The bio-dome protecting millions of lives from the harsh conditions outside looks almost impenetrable as she glances over her shoulder. There is no place for her there anymore. Whatever remnant of the world she had tried to build had died on that day and now she is left tethering on the edge of the abyss. However, the lack of the crown comes with freedom anew – whereas before she would not have allowed to be consumed by sadness, she sinks within it now as if into quicksand.

There is blaster fire in the distance, so reminiscent of her own childhood it feels like deja-vu. The ground of her home will be wet with blood once more and she knows no martyrdom can save the people from themselves, not when they have war in their bloodstreams and rage in their soul. Perhaps it was all for naught. Perhaps the doe-eyed innocence of days long passed was misplaced and peace was never made to last in a war fabricated by those who did not care about the masses. And now he is _gone_. Snuffed out, stolen from her grasp again. She dares not say his name, even in the safety of her own mind, cannot bear the lull of each syllable. To say it would make this all the more real, would remind her that he was not hers to keep – that he did not belong to himself either, so trapped within a world that had only ever wanted to bring him no solace, only despair.

It won’t be long until the people in power seek Mandalore for its soldiers; with her no longer in command, Satine does not know how much until it will destroy itself in the quest for faux glory. The thought tugs at her heart, at the residual remorse within. This is the theme lately: every step she takes feels like walking on knives, feels like daggers twisted into her back, just outside of her reach. If only she had tried harder, perhaps her people would be safe from this still. If only she had asked him to stay – childhood wasted. She had given her heat wholly to him, aware of the consequences, and he did what she expected him to do. But even if she wanted, she couldn’t have it back. It had belonged to him since that first moment fifteen years prior, when he dazzled her with a roughish smile and a penchant for perfection she had seen in no one but herself.

Footsteps in the distance. The sand shifts underneath the weight of a person. If she listens closely, the wind howling sounds like the voices of the dead. There is a storm approaching and if she does not find shelter, she will be dead soon too... If the figure does not reach her first. The blaster fire gets louder, reverberating like explosions through the dry ground. Satine vividly remembers cradling Bo to her chest in moments like this, two scared children in a world that wanted them dead – but Bo-Katan does not need her anymore, and the monsters under the bed are less frightening than the shadow of death looming over her in constant pursuit.

However, the figure approaching is no monster. She sees him clearly then. _Obi-Wan_. Raising from the dunes like a _fata morgana_ , a mirage amidst the dunes. She feels shackled in place, laden limbs sinking in, her throat as dry as the desert between them. Perhaps she ought to run; to scream at him again for making her mourn a death that was not real, but there is something in his demeanour that stops her from doing so. It dawns on her lighting fast: even if _he_ survived, there is a dubious probability that the entire order had fooled the galaxy with the charade of death. The meaning behind the revelation is so heavy she almost cannot swallow it, let alone blame him for the grief caused, however brief.

“Obi-Wan,” her voice trembles – the wind gets louder. He lifts his gaze to meet her own and she feels breathless once more, unrooted. There are a million things she wants to ask him, a million things she wants to tell him, but he moves the cloak out of the way and she is left with no alternative but to gape. There, in his arms, wrapped up in a blanket that is too thick for the weather, is a newborn. Obi-Wan is closer to her now: so close she can feel his warmth radiating, thawing away at the frost which had filled up her bones and she reaches her hand to brush careful fingers against the baby’s rosy cheek.

She had held a child so small only once before, but thought of Korkie is met with nothing but anguish. While she cannot be entirely sure, his survival chance was slim at best and, unlike Bo-Katan, she had not heard from him since that day. But the child in Obi-Wan’s arms does not know any of this pain. He is untouched by distress and yet to see the galaxy as anything but beautiful. There is a silent vow made to herself there, with the wind whipping at her face, at her cloak and only Obi-Wan’s shadow to shelter from the scourging sun. A promise she will keep until her last breath: he will not know this kind of loss. She will make sure of it.

“Satine, I know it’s a lot to ask, but…” she cuts Obi-Wan off with a laugh that borders on hysterical – a huff, exhale of the air she had not realised she had been holding in. There are tears in her eyes when she looks up at him, when she cups his cheeks in both her hands to glide thumbs across his cheekbones. It feels like rapture and mending altogether, two souls who had lost everything but one another, star-crossed lovers who had survived through trial of fire and ice.

“I love you,” she says instead. Obi-Wan looks almost startled but truly, it is as simple as that. It is all the answer that he needs, because while there is confusion still glimmering in his eyes, his shoulders release some of the tension and the frown becomes less pronounced. Without waiting for permission, Satine takes the child in her arms, cooing softly to keep him asleep. Something inside her shifts and clicks into place, like lost pieces of a puzzle finally put together to form a whole, chips in the marble of her being glued together in their proper place. Unbeknown to her, parsecs away, the infant’s twin sister blinks up to two pairs of equally adoring eyes, in the arms of a family who will love her just as much.

But the sound of massacre is getting closer and the volume disturbs the baby’s sleep. Satine’s hand finds Obi-Wan’s with practised ease and he drags her away from Sundari to where his ship is still warm from the journey, awaiting escape. Part of her cannot help but think he knew this would be the outcome before he had even landed. Yet, she knows him too well to assume he is aware just how deep her love runs; how she would walk to the edge of the universe in a heartbeat for him, especially now that the crown of lilies is crushed under tyrannical boots. He does not let go of her hand until he settles in the pilot’s seat and she is left to soothe out the fussing infant.

Satine finds out he is particularly fond of toying with her fingers. It does not take long for him to fall back to sleep, tiny fists wrapped around her index, her free hand caressing golden peach fuzz with awed reverence.

“Luke.” Obi-Wan’s voice breaks through the roar of the engine. She is viciously reminded of another time they attempted to leave Mandalore, but unlike then, the ship actually starts.

“Luke,” Satine repeats, in a daze. “ _Light_.” It seems almost fitting, for him to be named by luminous beams. She feels like there is more to the child than it meets the eye, questions of his parentage looming at the back of her mind, but there will be time for those. For now, as the ship jumps into hyperspace and she finally relaxes into her seat, Luke nestled gently on top of her chest. She feels like she can breathe for the first time since the war had started what feels so many years ago. There are still aspects they need to discuss, wounds that are fresh and raw and yet to heal, but she feels hopeful; there is death at the horizon and death chasing after them. It might very well be a long time until it catches up with them.

“If we are on the run now,” her voice takes the jovial tone he had learned to fear and he turns to her with a sceptical raise of his eyebrow. She hides her smile behind her hand and still, the way her eyes wrinkle at the corners give her away. “Does that mean you are going to shave that beard off?”

A moment of silence. Her sudden, quiet laughter quickly dissolve into sobs, but he moves next to her to guide her head against his chest, to run his fingers in her hair. There is a long journey ahead of them.


	2. Dum Spiro Spero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a week? I'm just excited to write this story to be completely honest. I will be posting new chapters every Monday after this, but i had a burst in creativity! Enjoy <3

“The younglings?” Satine asks once the initial wave of tears passes and they have shifted Luke onto a makeshift cot so they could speak unperturbed. He had exhausted himself after crawling around, and in the moments of watching him, both she and Obi-Wan managed to forgot about all the pain, content instead to pretend that _this_ is normalcy, that no duty nor war had thorn them apart in the first place.

But those moments, as filled with joy as they are, cannot last forever.

The ship threads onward at a steady pace, destination unknown to her. They are standing on the floor, knees touching, her fingers twirled around his. Obi-Wan had lost his robes somewhere during the strange domesticity that had fallen over them, and her own cloak is folded neatly on one chair, leaving her into nothing but a loose tunic and thermal leggings. He looks almost startled, as if snapped out of his thoughts, but nods his head as an invitation to repeat herself. This time, she feels less sure.

“The younglings. Were they… as well…?”

Obi-wan does not answer. His eyes glaze over, his mind a million parsecs away, and she has her answer. There are subjects they had always known not to speak of, but now they both know new pain and it feels akin to relearning each other, step by step. Every time they meet, he seems different; there is a weight on his shoulders, a weight that had always been there but never to this extent, and her heart clenches for him. For everything he had lost. Be he Atlas, with the galaxy propped over his shoulders, Satine does not know how long until his knees give in and his spine snaps.

She shifts, on her knees then leaning further. He does not notice until her arms are coiled around his torso and her mouth finds his forehead, but despite the slight tremor of his shoulder, his eyes remain dry.

However, she has never been one to coddle. She has always told him all she thought, no matter how cutting the words came out. Honesty between them has been something she had always appreciated greatly. Their anguish, far greater than any being ought to go through in a lifetime, leaves scars that will not heal and yet that does not mean she does not hold values inherently different than those he is used to. While his Jedi training has taught him to repress emotions, she has always worn her heart on her sleeve for anyone to see, has spoken her mind and allowed herself to feel everything fully. Perhaps that is what led to her ultimate downfall. So she holds him, but her gaze moves to Luke. She holds him, but her mind still wanders.

Obi-Wan senses her question in the way that he always does; Satine stopped believing it has to do with the force and more with the fact that he had become attuned to her moods and to the way her mind works long ago, a synchrony developed in close proximity, with the threat of death. He does not quite pull back from her, but she feels him stiffen subtly beneath her fingertips, a preparation for her reaction to whatever he is going to tell her.

She wonders at what cost sincerity comes, how much sated curiosity is going to cut at her soul and twist at her heart.

There is a lie at the tip of his tongue, rehearsed so many times. Yet he looks at her, at the sheer openness in her expression, feels her warmth engulf him. His ways, the ways of the Jedi, had deceived her too many times. Instead, he takes in a slow, steadying breath.

“He’s a Skywalker.” He does not need to say anything more, really. He might have, but Satine pulls back with a pained gasp and the sudden distance, even if by her own volition, only fuels the distress. Obi-Wan’s gaze is steady now. She searches for an indicator that what he is saying is untrue, but he has no reason to lie to her. What purpose would that serve? Then there comes the started revelation that she knew all along. Perhaps only instinctively, in the way one picks up on different details without meaning to, but if Luke is with them and the Jedi are gone that means…

“Padmé…?” A cutting question, one that leaves her gasping for air. He nods, slow and calculated. Negotiator now, and nothing more.

Time spent together washes over her in waves – a multitude of moments that now seem so far away, secrets shared within personal chambers, where public personas could be left behind. They had been only women then, stripped of regalia and expectations. Just two girls sharing the burden of a galaxy that wished to slow their every step. Padmé had given her strength when it all seemed too much, an ally through the turmoil and peaceful days as well. Whereas she cannot count the daggers in her back, embedded by many a people she had trusted, her friends and allies can be counted on one hand.

And now…

 “She can’t… she _cannot_ be dead.” The frailty on her voice is startling. Obi-Wan frowns, reaches out for her hand. She pulls back as if burnt, focused instead on processing the news. It is not his fault and she would be cruel to put the blame on him... But had this war not been the product of Jedi mind frame? Had he not been general in a battlefield that deprived and killed millions? Peacekeepers with weapons at their belts and the capacity to |curb willpower – the demons in the stories she had been told as a child.

And yet she knows all this to be untrue. The galaxy seems to be shifting from under their feet, but they gravitate towards one another through the debris, spiralling out of control before meeting in the middle for the briefest of moments. They were built for tragedy. They were built to carry the burden that would crush any other.

This time, when he wraps his fingers around hers, she does not pull away. There is a hole inside her chest, gaping open and spewing forth blood, she doesn’t know how to close it. His expression is grim; she knows this to be sign that he had not told her everything.

(Will he ever? Does she want him to? One day, perhaps. When both would be less frayed at the edges, less prone to breaking.)

“Anakin’s stepbrother and his wife live on Tatooine. We are going to take Luke to Owen and Beru,” he ventures on after the silence stretches on for longer than comfortable. “They are his family and –”

Obi-Wan does not get to continue. There is that fire in her eyes he had grown familiar with. She will not allow this to happen without a fight, especially now that she is aware of the child’s parentage. Under any other circumstances, it would fill him up with excitement for another verbal sparring; now, however, it fills him with dread. Satine is a woman not to be scorned – she is swift to deliver, a beautiful hurricane ready to swallow whole everything, including him, in righteous anger. Albeit her voice is hushed as to not wake the baby, the fury is present in every syllable, her fingers clench almost painfully around his.

“I must remind you that he is not solely Anakin’s child,” if she sees him flinch at the venom in her voice or at the way she speaks his former’s apprentice name so easily, she does not let on, instead straightening her spine to make herself seem taller, more imposing. “But he is Padmé’s as well! I loved her like a sister… I refuse to allow him to grow up without his mother’s presence! You came to _me_ for a reason, Obi-Wan. Knowing you as well as I do, I very much doubt it was because you have finally decided to fulfil a childhood promise,” Before he can interrupt her with a protest, Satine holds her hand up. The movement, as swift as it is brief, makes her seem every inch a Duchess she had been, royal blood evident in the way she holds herself, ready for battle. He falls silent immediately and she softens. The ice in her gaze melts to make way to thinly veiled affection and she lets go of his hand to caress his bearded cheek instead.

Satine has always given so much of herself to him. It is a dept he cannot repay.

“I do not know what horrors you have seen. I do not know how much blood is on your hands. I do not think it is the time for this – but you have to stop punishing yourself. I will not allow you to deprive this child of the image of his parents because of your guilt. And I will not stand by and watch this guilt consume you. ”

There is a moment, short-lived and fleeting, when Satine can see past his Jedi shroud, past all those principles ingrained into him since infancy. For the brief moment it lasted, she caught a glimpse at the turmoil within. She had known Obi-Wan was anything but unfeeling all along, perhaps even before he became aware of it, when even his master had failed to see the conflict inside his soul. His humanity shone through like a beacon, a flaw in the perfectly mechanical system, a hitch in a well-executed plan.  

It goes as soon as it came. She cannot help but watch as he rebuilds the armour around himself, the bone-carcass as strong as ferosteel and impenetrable to her. His duality is infuriating, a constant fight between brain and heart. She cannot see him destroy himself from within.

“It is not your choice to make, Satine,” the cold voice of a general.

She flinches back, he falters a moment, but the deed is done.

“But it _is_! It became so the moment you sought me out.”

“Then maybe doing so was a mistake.”

Hurt flashes in her eyes. Is it not in his nature to hurt her? To twist the blade deeper into her hart and watch her blood coat his skin crimson? He had never learned how to accept the premise of affection, no matter her patience. But Satine is as good as becoming ice cold as he is, her demeanour mirroring his if not for the emotion playing in her eyes. Her voice betrays no such thing.

“Perhaps you are right, _General_. If only I had known it would take so much death for you to make a choice for yourself…”

She withdraws completely, standing up to storm off into another cabin. Only there, the tears start anew. For Padmé, a loss that feels so monumental she can feel it slicing to the marrow of her bones. For Luke as well; for the unsure future that will face him. She cries for Mandalore too, and for the galaxy whole.

In her life, tears had come scarcely, an attempt to ward off any weakness the vultures could exploit to their own gain – a twenty year old ruler over a war thorn system had to be spun out of ice, cold to the touch and strong as duracrete. Satine cannot cling to the excuses any longer, not now. Once the walls are shattered, brought down to the ground mercilessly, there is no way of rebuilding them.

Obi-Wan finds her there hours later, exhausted and spent. His touch lingers over her cheek, fingers pushing back tear soaked strands from her forehead with a sigh. With her guards down, in sleep, she looks almost as young as she had been so many years ago, back when holding her hand brought out so much wonder and confusion. His guiding light through the jungle of emotion.

He knows this to be the reason for seeking her out now, as selfish as it may be. As prone to inflicting pain on her as he is. For once in his lifetime, Obi-Wan Kenobi allows himself the selfishness.

 When she wakes after another short while, closer to their destination still, his robe is carefully placed over her shoulders and his scent lingers in the air.


	3. Sapientiam

The ship moves on at a steady pace and Satine is kissing him. Just like when they were young, her hand in his hair and her lips barely moving against his, permission and forgiveness and everything in between. If he moves his head, she is going to pull back. If he moves his head, she is going to release the vice-like grip she has on his arm where she had grabbed him moments prior as he was passing her by. He doesn’t dare move, but for his fingers on her hips, holding her close to him with almost more force than needed.

The kiss feels like redemption. Almost religious in nature, the way she moulds herself around him in an attempt to infuse his warmth into her skin, nails digging into the soft flesh at the base of his skull to leave behind angry welts. Forbidden fruit hanging low before the both of them, promising so much and so little. But is it forbidden if everything that had kept them apart had crumbled to dust before their very eyes?

His robe is still draped over her shoulders. It almost engulfs her whole.

“You’re mad at me,” he says, because he can read her easily. Obi-Wan had learned to do so long ago, every purse of her lips and furrow of her brows. She has not changed much. Nothing between them has really changed, except the scars, the regret, the pain. Meanwhile he seems parsecs away, just out of her reach, cold like the light of a dying star.

They had both lost so much. They had both been through so much. It does not give him an excuse to shut himself off from her.

He catches that glint in her eye, cutting like steel. It's so easy to push one another's buttons, to sink talons into the other's chest and rip, if only for the satisfaction of having held the beating heart for a moment of rapture.

Satine pushes him away because she _is_ angry, walks towards the large transparisteel windows by the bay. His laugh follows her steps, gruff and short and ironic, but he doesn’t. He stays where she left him, amusement making his eyes glimmer. They had been dull in colour before and, had Satine not been so utterly exasperated, she would consider this to be a step forwards.

She does not see the glimmer, nor the way Obi-Wan traces his fingers over his lips.

There had always been a push and pull to them, like tidal waves following the moon, a dance more than the threading of a path forward, no matter how well her hand fits into his.

From her perch, she can see the planet growing closer. Unlike the sand at home, the desert of Tatooine is more golden than bleached-skull. It does not bear the weight of countless deaths not mourned by anyone but the howling winds and its core is not made out of dried-up blood, bones ground to dust so fine one could see right through, as if standing on glass burned by a ruthless sun. Yet Mandalore had been home, despite the terrible heaviness which clings on the hearts of the survivors. Satine wonders if she shall learn to love the desert here as well.

It matters little.

Obi-wan is back at piloting, regardless of how little he cares for it and she moves to get Luke ready for the journey.

The baby does not cry much, but Satine knows she cannot judge his lung capacity so early on. Instead, he coos softly when he sees her, extends little arms towards her, ready to be picked up. The smile is contagious and she finds herself humming softly. It is almost too easy to love him – this child of sunlight. She knows part of it has to do with his parentage, a sisterhood forged against all ends, a friendship she had cherished until the very last moment.

 “We have to go. I have already arranged for a place to stay, temporarily, but if you are bent on not taking him to his _family_ …” Obi-Wan’s voice cuts the moment of reminiscence short. He appears in her peripheral vision, arms open to indicate he is willing to hold Luke while she gets ready for the journey ahead, but she brushes past him. Only the half-smile she regales him with gives away the fact that the time to talk will come later.

She is angry with him, after all.

*

 

Despite the glaring differences from her homeworld, Tatooine is a desert still and Satine is unprepared for the harsh weather. The heavy cloak she had become accustomed to wearing to conceal her identity slows down her step, but she keeps the hood over her eyes with one hand, the other firmly trapped in the crook of Obi-Wan’s arm as they walk through Mos Espa. He does not seem perturbed by the heat, but for her sake and Luke’s he tries to keep them in the shade, as much as possible. For once, she envies his Jedi training: she was not built for strenuous activity, no matter the Mando blood in her veins.

He, on the other hand, does not even break a sweat.

The city is bustling with life, one thing Satine had not expected when watching the planet from afar, but the people are accustomed to enough fugitives, especially now. There is no reason to believe that the family travelling in quiet haste is actually made out of a former Duchess and her Jedi protector, let alone that the child does not belong to them. And even if there was, Obi-Wan can handle the questions, silver-tongued still, despite the exhaustion she can notice in the weight of his step.

He tries to conceal it, that weight which clings onto his limbs. For her, or for himself, she cannot tell. He had always been so good at pretending to be fine, despite all odds. It worries her, as it always did.

There are too many curiosities around this part of the market for their identity to prove any real concern, anyway, and they speak little. She wonders how much of the money Obi-Wan obtained on their ship was thanks to his mind tricks, but the question would leave a sour taste on her tongue, burn at her throat before she could even get the words out. Satine is made out of thicker skin now, regardless. Has learned the hard way that kindness does not always beget kindness.

From the corner of her eyes, Satine sees a stand of mando spices. The diaspora spreads wide across the galaxy, warriors who have settled down on conquered worlds and richer planets, traditions borrowed and changed until they are almost unrecognisable.  She takes a step towards it, the smell of home overtaking her senses. There is something too familiar in the air, hazy like the memories of her mother, but before she can shift off their path more, Obi-Wan’s grip on her tightens and he pulls her further towards the eopie enclosure.

“Stay close,” his whisper in her ear. She does well to scowl up at him, even if half-hearted. Her nails find their way back into his arm painfully, but a verbal reprimand does not come – he is right, something she will not admit often. The quicker they manage to get transportation, the sooner they will be out of the public eye. Despite not being recognised yet, they have no way of knowing it will not happen at some point. Sooner, rather than later, judging by their overall luck.

The noises of the crowd grow dimmer, even as a small boy rushes past them, closer than needed in an attempt to rob them. She evades the collision with a sidestep, shoulder pushing against Obi-Wan's own and the child, sensing her awareness, scurries off into an alley. Ever since that day, she had seem many people trying to live day by day. She had learned there is nothing she can do either.

A dirty smell replaces the herbal tones that had entranced her earlier; Satine wrinkles her nose, dignified despite the absence of royal garb and Luke seems to mimic her overall reaction.

The little creature guarding the eopies reminds her of a bug: bulbous eyes and transparent wings fluttering with dizzying speed. His snout overhang over a row of yellowed, sharp teeth, bouncing off with every movement. Satine cannot tell if the stench comes from him or from the herd of eopies in the enclosure behind him. His name appears to be Kan Wupi, the words scribbled on a plaque hanging low, but he neither confirms nor denies it. He must be toydarian, albeit she cannot remember the name of all the species in the Outer Rim.

Obi-Wan gives Luke to her and the being’s eyes shift almost feral, but she turns her back on him with little care of decorum. Manners would do them no good here.

“How much?” Obi-Wan’s accent is different somehow – less cultivated and harsher, but Satine can hear the undertones well if she strains enough. Kan Wupi lifts one webbed hand to point in the direction of Luke, and she tightens her hold on the child, involuntarily stepping away. The toydarian’s laugh sounds choked; a grating sound that gets on her nerves far too quickly. She is in no mood for jokes. Especially the distasteful kind.

“Twenty peggat.” Kan Wupi’s voice is strained, but the smirk on his face reveals his teeth and makes Satine feel almost slimy. Obi-Wan remains passive, however, merely raising an eyebrow at the display.

“I’ll give you fourteen.”

“Twenty peggat or none!” Infuriated, the creature buzzes closer to him, but Obi-Wan merely shrugs his shoulders, turning towards Satine with an air of indifference. She knows it to be a ploy; without transportation, they cannot brace the desert, but she plays along easily, offering the both of them a demure smile.

“I think we could spare sixteen, my love. We are getting tired and I’ve seen one I have already grown quite attached to.”

“Sixteen peggat it is,” says the resigned dealer. Webbed fingers close around the currency quickly, counting the money twice before pointing towards the eopies with a grunt. Obi-Wan does _not_ pick the one she had wanted, perhaps in petulant retaliation to their earlier exchange and she decidedly _does not_ pout.

She does not comment on it, but lets him wrangle the beast into submission.

Eopie secured and sixteen peggat short, the city grows smaller in the background. Obi-Wan is proficient at keeping the animal steady despite the weight, and Luke fusses from the harsh movements, but the suns are setting in the distance and in the golden light of dawn, the planet looks almost beautiful.

Satine shifts closer, an arm wrapped around his broad torso, and rests her head against his shoulder blade. Soon enough, he feels her grip go lax and her head loll to the side. He grasps her hand, shifting Luke in his hold, and continues to ride on towards their new home.


	4. Reprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things need to be bad before they can be good, and for that, I apologise. But not really.

“Darling,”

Her voice is distant, almost muffled by the winds. Or is it his breath? The panic settles into his bones, seizing at his heart. But this cannot be – a pair of yellow eyes stare at him from the darkness, tepid and yet burning like molten gold. The lightsaber burns, the ground is scourging. He can taste ash on his tongue, bile raising in his throat. He cannot do this. He cannot _kill_ him. He –

“Obi-Wan,”

She sounds closer now, a last vestige of sanity his mind clings to, when betrayal cuts deep and the pain of loss even deeper. He had failed, like he always does, had allowed evil to fester into their midst, so close to him and yet they had all been blind to the beginning of the end. Children slaughtered like cattle. A boy turned monster. Everything he had ever known in ruins.

“Ben!”

Satine’s hand closes around his shoulder, shaking him with perhaps more force than warranted. He opens his eyes with a gasp at last, shooting upwards in the bed, startled by both the name and the motion. Obi-Wan finds her kneeling next to the mattress, face adorned with unveiled concern. She moves her fingers to his forehead, brushing away damp strands of hair. He fights against the instinct to lean into her, to take comfort for something she cannot begin to understand and he cannot begin to voice.

There is a sadness in her eyes that pulls at his heart, threatening to rip at heartstrings, a guilt he sees in himself whenever he looks in the mirror.

They both know well enough they will never be free of it – the guilt. It is there to stay, forevermore etched onto their tattered souls.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth to stutter an excuse, the nightmare – the memory – still fresh in his mind, but she hushes him softly, in the way he had seen her do with Luke. The smile he gives in exchange is both relieved and grateful.

“You do not have to talk about it if you are not ready, darling.”

The glass of water she must have brought before beginning her attempt to rouse him from the nightmare finds its way into his shaking hands, and he takes it gratefully. Satine does not need to fret about him as she does now, but he allows her to, too tired and drained to put up a fight. He is no sick child in need for a mother, but comfort is something they both need now.

“Easy now, it's cold. You'll get sick if you drink too quickly."

He feels like a scolded boy, but does as he is told, slowing down his gulps, if only to keep her cool hand curled around his for a moment longer. Her skin is as invigorating as the water, something he does not even think to admit out loud.

By the way she smiles at him, all tenderness and no judgement at all, she is already aware anyway.

"Scoot over,” at his raised eyebrow she lifts her own, pushing at his arm with the pads of her fingers. While her voice does not carry that worried quality anymore, taking on a jovial tone instead, he knows it to be a ploy. Still, he obeys, moving closer to the wall so she can slip into bed next to him. The glass finds its place on the floor and her arms snake around his torso, head nestled against his chest, over his beating heart.

It feels akin to being into a bacta tank – healing. Soothing. Her scent, floral and fresh fills his lungs and her hair tickles his skin.

“What time is it?”

“Little past midnight. You started making sounds half an hour ago, but I had to calm down Luke before even attempting to wake you up. I didn’t know how long it would take or into what direction it would go.”

His fingers find a golden curl to play with, almost pensive. He thinks to apologise for waking her, but that would only offend her. Satine is no stranger to nightmares. She knows very well the toll they take on the mind, the way they cling onto the subconsciousness even awake.

Yet she also knows him – knows his stubbornness.

They had started the night in separate beds after all, as they had the nights prior, still clinging onto the old galaxy they had been thorn out of, despite how much of a charade this faux show of modesty was.

How many times had they slept together under the stars or deep into the caves? Youth and innocence had made everything seem so much simpler back then. They are not the same children they once were, and yet, in the strange way Fate – or the Force – works her magic, they are.

Lost. Scared. Alone in a galaxy that wants their head.

“You called me Ben. Before… when I was still asleep. Did you not?" Still drowsy with sleep, his voice sounds raspy, like sandpaper scrapping against wood. He brings the strand of hair wrapped around his fingers to his mouth, "It’s been a while.”

Satine tilts her head to look at him – it is an awkward angle, her head craned almost painfully and his chin pressed into his chest, but their eyes meet. There is always a jolt of _something_ she feels into her very soul when they look at each other like this.

(Souls, it seems, long for each other just like the hearts do.)

“Yes,” a calculated answer, her tone even. She had not called him that in over a decade, but it did not lose its meaning.

Through everything, it was the only thing he truly possessed, something no one could take away; not the Order, not the Sith. Not the war. While owning anything was directly against Jedi doctrine, he had allowed himself the small selfishness of clinging onto it, a token so secret none was the wiser but the two of them... and perhaps his former Master. Satine had gifted him with something so gargantuan in meaning in a package so small, just three letters woven together into a name. Testament to love and loss and friendship above anything else.

His salvation, it seemed, came in the form of a small woman with a temper twice her size.

“I think I will go by it from now on.”

She makes a humming noise in her throat, moving to rest her palm on his chest, her chin on her hand. It is dark, but even in the darkness Obi-Wan can see the glimmer in her eyes, prompting him on.

“It would be unwise to hold onto the one on the wanted list.”

Not his _real_ name, Satine notices with a self-satisfied smile. Her denomination has been as real to him as Obi-Wan has. It warms her heart in ways she thought impossible after so much time spent among the glaciers.

“It suits you: Ben Kenobi, the hermit of Tatooine.” Her fingers brush over his beard, settling at a collarbone. She might have said more if not for the yawn she cannot contain. He laughs, despite the tremble still holding onto his body, despite the terrible feelings still seizing at his heart. The kind that survive even the Force’s tidal pull, rooted so deeply into his being.

She scowls, but it is good-natured. Her head settles back onto his chest and his fingers venture deeper into her hair.

They fall asleep like that, curled around each other, breaths syncing into one.

*

Satine wakes with the sun – Obi-Wan still deep into a dreamless sleep for once. She had waken up a couple more times to feed and change the baby, but since that nightmare, he had not moved from the safety of the blankets. He needs the rest and she will let him have it.

She had always been the matutinal kind, comforted by the quietness of the morning. Since being on the run, waking up early meant a better chance of moving without interception, but even as a child, she would wake Bo in the wee hours of the morning to watch the sunrise.

This time, however, there is another being awake and ready for the day.

The cot is not far from the beds; their little home has no space for separate rooms after all, and she prefers to have him close during the night. Luke fits well into her arms – that is something she had noticed since the beginning, a feeling not overshadowed by any amount of anguish or guilt. There is such an innocence in his eyes as he stares up at her, blinking twice, before he begins to wail.

“I know, I _know_. Hush now, love. I’m here. Nothing can hurt you.” in the week they had been on Tatooine, Obi-Wan had managed to procure a bantha to keep company to their eopie, nicknamed Runi. She never asks of his ways when he goes into the market, but the fact that he must be in the open so often worries her, a moment she dreads every day. They have yet to settle or to make the place homey; beyond the blanket they had bought for Luke from an old woman and a single lily pressed between a couple pages of flimsi she had brought from home, the house is barren of anything personal.

 The thought of the permanence of this lifestyle still eludes her to some extent, but that cannot be for long.

Still, Luke keeps her into the present. The bottle of milk he had been drinking from drops to the floor with an audible bang. She jumps, to the echo of Obi-Wan’s laughter reverberating from the doorway.

The look she gives him is positively murderous.

“If you find feeding a baby so amusing, why don’t you do it yourself? I'm sure you'll find getting spit all over you positively _delightful._ ”

A scoff, the child mimicking her attitude by blowing a spit bubble in Obi-Wan’s direction. She conceals her amusement by bending down for the bottle, but he beats her to it, one arm wrapping around her waist as she strengthens.

“And deprive you of the joy of bonding? I would never!”

There is that glimmer in his eyes she had been so familiar with – it has been years since she had seen it last, and now that he’s smiling her way, even as weighted down by the past as he is, she knows she will forgive him anything, no matter how big or small.

She moves into the circle of his arms to look up at him, bouncing an excited Luke. He had taken an immediate liking to Obi-Wan, albeit he is still reluctant around the child. While Satine had fallen into the nurturing role easily, he still has a long way to go, and the shadows of the past overcast the possibility of forging something new. Still, he lifts his hand to brush it over the infant’s cheek, and her heart stutters for a fraction of a moment.

Would it be too selfish to hope? To imagine that they can grow to be a family, to leave behind all that had caused them so much pain and embrace the future?

Perhaps not. She had loved him since forever ago it seems, a sentiment which had withstood trial and tribulation. Before, there had been scarce reason to imagine they would ever cross paths for more than a fleeting moment, that anything between them would be of any type of permanence. Now the times are changing, and so must they.

Still, Satine would not be herself would she not engage in banter, and her smirk spells out trouble. Obi-Wan scoffs a little, almost bracing for impact, but there is a softness in his gaze, a gentleness in his touch.

“Why, Master Kenobi, I never took you as one to –”

His face falls. Satine sees it happening almost in slow motion, unable to change the course of her words or the outcome. Instead, she brings her fingers to his cheek, tilting his head to beckon him to look at her, despite his stubborn reluctance.

“I’m so sorry, Obi-Wan. Everything has happened so quickly and I’m still –”

“It’s fine.”

Yet his tone and overall composure tell her anything but. His shoulders had tensed up, his jaw squared and gaze far away. A General into the war, he had been, but he had been prisoner of the same war as well, trapped within iron bars painted yellow to imitate gold. Death follows him like a shadow, like an omen. He had lost so many – had almost lost _her_ , and reminders of this are everywhere he looks. She needs not remind him of any more.

But he closes himself off, builds walls so high she has to climb all over again with every misstep, grows thorns around his heart in an attempt to save himself from pain. In doing so, he only pushes her away more.

“Ben –”

She tries to take a hold of his hand. Luke senses the strained atmosphere and begins to fuss, but Obi-Wan is already trapped into whatever hell he had stumbled into. She wishes she could take all the pain away, take it upon herself if she must, but he will not allow her passage into his heart, and she cannot help him if he remains closed off.

Their hands interlock but he pulls his back, as if startled out of deep thought or licked by fire.

“I’m going out to fix the vaportator.” His voice sounds distant, cold. The light she had seen in his eyes snuffed just as quickly. He will come to regret it in the hours to pass, but he needs to clear his head.

Satine watches him go from the doorway, the suns already raising above the horizon and the child crying in her arms. A final call of his name yields no result, only the winds, so she turns with a huff, closes the door and goes back to tending to Luke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently in the process of searching for a beta-reader. I'm.. new to the fanfic scene altogether and I'm still getting a hold of things so if you wanna read ahead or discuss the story (or just obitine) holler @ me!


	5. Dasaevio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes embark in a journey through repressed emotion that finally bubbles up from beneath, so buckle up, we're in for a bumpy ride. But hey, next week we're meeting the Lars fam!

He finds her hours after dusk. She does not ask him where he has been, does not scold him for worrying her – does not even look at hm. That hurts the most, it seems. Her silence. The way she flinches away when he tries to touch his shoulder.

They stay like that for what seems like millennia. He, a sentinel guarding his lady’s eternal slumber, she, queen spun of ice and nothing else.

The house bears hints of the day’s work – she might not be the best of cooks, but there is dinner gone cold on the table, and the walls are adorned with geometrical shapes in white and blue and what seems to be a tiny purple handprint by the window. Mandalorian had always been proud of their art, of their ability to find beauty in the worst situations. Had she deliberately sought to make him guilty for his behaviour, it would not have the same effect as this.

Is this war then, between them? Her back to him, his hand hovering mid-air until holding it still becomes painful. She keeps herself still like a statue, ignores his presence when every atom of her body screams at his nearness.

Loving him hurts – a truth beyond all else. Unseen puppeteer strings wrapped around both their throats, binding, the crimson of blood seeping from veins coated in gold to paint the thread red. Perhaps this is why all old, forgotten stories speak of red strings of fate holding together those born out of the same star. Daggers deep into the back masquerading as cupid’s arrows.

He holds onto the palm of his hand her heart and he alone has the power to destroy it. She does not know when the concept had stopped being so frightening. Does not know what it says about her that she would break her ribs one by one to accommodate him into her chest, would bleed herself dry to ensure he is fine.

“Satine –”

She spins around with such speed it almost gives him a backlash. There is anger in her eyes, a fire so hot it burns him alive, but it is not that which twists the blade lodged into his heart.

Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. Even with her head held high and her pride on display, it is a testament to anguish.

“Do you think you are the only one who lost everything?”

“Satine, I’m…”

“You will speak when I request you to, Obi-Wan Kenobi!” The tone of her voice had been carefully chosen; angrily acidic, laced with arsenic, without even a passive spoonful of honey to sweeten the blow. He takes a step back, but she follows him, a finger firmly lodged between two of his ribs. Had she wielded a weapon now, it would have went straight through his heart. Perhaps that would be a more forgiving fate.

“You sit and you brood and you push me away, only to seek me out when it suits you. I am not claiming the events you have been through are less filled with horror – a horror I cannot understand because you will not allow me to. I am not saying that your mourning is misplaced or wrong, because it is _not_. But you show me glimpses of what’s inside only to lock me away once again, you play with me as if I do not care for your well-being, as if I’m some… wet nurse or common harlot you can bring along so I may suit your needs as you please – !”

Her voice grows progressively quieter; an attempt to not wake up Luke, but the intent behind each word becomes clearer by the syllable. Satine Kryze is a woman scorned, and Obi-Wan does well to hold his tongue until she has finished. Experience dictates that she will exhaust herself soon.

_‘Am I not enough?’_ Her voice does not say, because she knows the answer. How she has never been enough for him, not when he longs for something more. Just like father did. Just like Bo-Katan did. Doomed to fail, the dove of peace flies in maddening circles only to fall with the blaster fire, to bleed and bleed and bleed onto the glass-like sand. She had been idea, a concept to look at but never grasp. She had been comfort into the night, but never permanence. She had been his fall from grace.

"I let you go so many times because to ask you to stay would mean shackles around your wrists, a cage for your soul. Because you were never mine to keep. You were not yours to give away."

(Nameless - loss of identity. I had named you once but you took that name and disappeared into the night, a phantom ache into my heart, punishment for primordial sin. I had named you once and it meant nothing to you, just like I never did - the lies her mind supplies taste awfully similar to giving up)

She knows exactly where the soft spots of his underbelly are, so she may sink talons into his flesh and hurt him, words like bullets finding their marks with increasing accuracy. He is not undeserving of such lashing; of the hailstorm that rains upon him as if divine punishment.

He had hurt her so deeply without even realising it - without thinking himself capable of such a thing, of such a power over her. It comes back to haunt him now, a wild banshee with flaming gilded hair and eyes of ice that burn.

The slaughter goes on, a massacre of spirit. This is emotion building up, turmoil locked away only for it to burst free.

“You have died on me before only for me to find out you had never been buried,” her voice trembles, almost breaks. All he wants to do is to take her in his arms, to fix this wrong that has been his own doing. He cannot. And yet his fingers curl around hers against his chest, squeezes them so tight she might as well be a lifeline. She allows it, and Obi-Wan takes it as a good sign.

“There are moments I wonder how much of your supposed affection is fabricated, how much –”

“Enough!” His voice bellows and she flinches back, a baby bird’s frantic flutter of winds in an attempt to escape, but he holds onto her hand, does not allow her escape. The sliver of fear in her eyes steals all the air from his lungs. Her rage he can take. Her undiluted anger, the sharpness of her tongue. He can stand the verbal punishment until her throat gives out and no more words suffice to describe that which she is feeling. But her fear? For her to be afraid of _him_ , even if minutely, it twists at his heart and leaves it to bleed itself dry. 

“Enough, Satine.” Softer now, he loosens the noose around her wrist. She pulls back her hand in indignation, rubbing at the irritated skin. He expects her to leave, to run away when he had only proven her claims, but she stays where she is, head held high with all the royal dignity she had possessed since infancy.

He has to make it right. If not for his sake, then for her own, for Luke's. She insists on building a life out of ash and debris; he had been holding back from the tendrils of hope.

“You are cruel; you claim to be the only one hurting in this… whatever it is happening between us – whatever has been happening between us for years now. You think I do not care for you? That leaving you then hadn't put me in a position I never thought myself in? For the first few months I survived on nothing scarce of autopilot, when all I ever wanted was to be near to you. But I did not lie when I told you I would have stayed with you on Mandalore, and I do not know what else to say to pacify you –”

“ _Pacify_ me?!” The hurricane returns full force.

Obi-Wan cringes, bringing a hand to his temple to rub away the headache, a habit he had grown into more and more as of late.

“I did not mean it like that! You know it… I’m trying to apologise but you’re making it increasingly difficult!”

Satine laughs, once; a sound that is more exclamation than actual laughter, bitter and cold. Ice spike meant for his core.

“You have a funny way of showing it, for one who had been gifted with the title of Great Negotiator. But Obi, you have come to _me_. Now, in a time like this. You have come to me with a child and an unknown destination and I, like a fool, followed you blindly without asking when or why. I do not need to know of what happened – of the demons you keep locked in so tightly they can only breathe at night. I have never demanded to be privy of your innermost emotion, no matter how much I wish I knew what wounds to touch so they may heal.”

“I’m sorry –”

“No. I need no apology, and I do not need you to force yourself to relieve the events that had brought us here so soon.”

Obi-Wan tries to take a hold of her hand again and this time, she meets him halfway through. It had always been awe inducing how easily she could go from glacial to tender, from soft to hard like durasteel. Satine is a woman of many qualities, but perhaps the sharpness of her tongue and the sheer size of her heart are the greatest yet.

Her other hand finds his cheek, the bristles of his beard tickling at the pad of her thumb, and this time, he leans into her, to soak up her light and her amnesty.

“I just need you to let me in. Don’t lock me out whenever something happens. I will not watch you destroy yourself with guilt. Both of our worlds are here no longer – but I _am_.”

But how can he let go of an entire lifetime of teachings? Even with the Order gone, the Jedi live through him, a legacy that is monumental, crushing, and terrifying. Obi-Wan cannot confide into her all the horrors he had seen – all the horrors he had committed. Cannot risk losing her again, like fine sand slipping through the minuscule gaps between his fingers.

Satine knows him all too well, however. Can read him like an open book when he himself had lost the cipher to be able to understand the language.

She closes in the distance between them, new tears shining in her eyes, fingers sliding from his cheek to cup at the back of his neck and tug him closer. Like a ragdoll, he complies. Like a ragdoll, he is held to her chest, his head tucked away in the crook of her neck, her lips against his shoulder.

“Gods, Ben… What am I to do with you?”

His Master’s voice in his year, whispering of the Force, urging him to release the emotions into the void, to do away with them so he may continue living blindly, untouched by feelings which only seek his harm. He had always been the imperfect Jedi, not capable to achieve greatness no matter how much he tried. The irony makes it that he had outlived all others, had been the one to survive the massacre. A massacre which lays heavy on his shoulders, a guilt he cannot shrug off.

Satine’s heartbeat in the other, a steady rhythm, present and real and alive. She reminds him of all that he had lost, of all that he could have had… but also of what can be. A future that is not outside their grasp now, despite all odds and monsters at their heels. In his darkest hours, she had come to him in his sleep, a guide through the night, a light to warm him up when the cold had seeped into his bones, seizing his marrow. His saving grace, cherubic creature giving him strength even in her absence.

A choice needs to be made – a choice she cannot make for him, not like before. _Not again_. Perhaps for the best, her silence and arms around him allowing him that comfort without caging him in, without demanding one outcome over the other.

If he chose to forsake her again, she would leave with her head held high and a smile to hide the pain within. She had always been tremendously good at keeping her own distress away from him when she does not wish him to see.

She brushes her fingers through his hair, nails scrapping against his scalp. Forgiveness is much akin to her kisses over his skin, still warm from the suns.

Obi-Wan pulls back with a boyish grin, one so reminiscent of their days long past. Satine feels her heart stutter, then speed up with sudden force, wind knocked out of her lungs.

She loves him – that is the only certainty she can afford in the middle of all this. All his broken edges and scars and the demons plaguing both waking moments and sleep. She loves him.

“I suppose whatever it is you have been doing with me until now, Your Grace,” the teasing glint in his eyes gives her hope. And as he bows over her head to press a fuzzy kiss onto her knuckles, she feels all the pain seeping out like bad blood dripping from a wound.

Satine laughs – crystal clear and genuine; Obi-Wan finds himself mirroring the sentiment. There are still secrets unsaid, but he has seen the reach of the pain inflicted upon her, has come to realise that his actions affect her more than he thought possible.

He swallows back the thought that he is undeserving of such sentiment. Undeserving of her.

“Let’s warm up your dinner, you dreadful man. You have been out in the suns all day – I’m surprised you have not died from the heat.”

He accepts the light punch she bestows upon his shoulder with a tilt of his head to hide the grin, but she sees it nonetheless. Hand in hand, in the middle of an unfamiliar, unforgiving desert, with a child sleeping peacefully in the room adjacent, she had never felt more at home.


End file.
